


Flea

by SCGirls



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Attempted Kidnapping, F/M, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23226250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCGirls/pseuds/SCGirls
Summary: This wasn't how Izaya planned to spend his weekend. Unfortunately, the most interesting things were never simple.
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo/Orihara Izaya, Kishitani Shinra/Celty Sturluson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	1. Bad Luck Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Woo~ This took forever to write in between the original stuff I'm doing with a friend! This will be another work I (hopefully) will finish because I tend to just jump from one story to another! This story I have decently planned out, but feel free to comment on things you might like to see!

This wasn’t how Izaya planned to spend his weekend.

This isn’t the first time that he’s thought this. He’s fairly sure the idea has crossed his mind with every subsequent kidnapping; with every strange occurrence desensitizing him to things that most would see as out of the norm. He’d like something simple, he thinks now, as he pads along the sidewalk in the fastest motion his body can currently carry him under present circumstances. He could have gathered information for some lowlife businessman; he could spend his time sitting at his desk gathering information on his computer in the relative quiet of his apartment. It would be nice to listen to the soft, rain-like drizzle of his beloved coffee maker as it brews instead of the desperate calls directed toward him to go back. Most of all, he misses the comfort of his office chair; to sit at his desk for hours on end gathering information or talking in the chatrooms he frequents and make idle conversation with individuals behind the protection of fake names and ambiguity.

“There he is!” Izaya chances a glance behind him to see three men gaining speed. He looks away, willing his feet to carry him faster as panic kicks in. “Get him!”

Unfortunately, the most interesting things were never simple.

Izaya maneuvers his body through the crowd of people; his steps uneven as adrenaline overrides any thought of a set destination. The streets are busy, too crowded to follow a single person for a long distance and Izaya tries to take some comfort in that fact. It’d be easy to lose them, to manipulate his body enough to flow through the crowd and in between bodies as if he were a fish swimming through the Sumida River. 

That's easier said than done, though. Even with Izaya's lean body, it's difficult to move any length of distance without getting stepped upon or tripped. His humans are impatient, too focused on their own lives and thoughts to pay any mind to their surroundings more than they have to. Any other time Izaya would stop to appreciate the way that they ignore beings they deem lesser than them in favor of focusing on whatever selfish thing they desire. 

“Get out of the way!” They’re closer now. He can hear their feet land heavily on the pavement as they run, pushing people out of their way to get to him.

Izaya pushes his body to run faster, to work harder and past the ever-growing exhaustion he’s sure he’s going to feel if he slows his pace. He bumps into someone; he can feel the weight of their body on his as he pushes past them even before he’s realized he should apologize. It gets him another yell in response, another command to slow down or to stop that he’s not going to listen to. 

He deems himself lucky, in a way. His humans don't bother to intervene; don't make an attempt to try to grab at his sides or back in an attempt to stop him. They pass glances instead; curious looks that give him an insight into the unvoiced questions they're asking. Izaya can't answer them even if he tries, can't put words to the unlikely situation at hand.

Izaya trips, his feet skipping over the sidewalk and other feet alike. His heart skids in panic, his blood running cold for a fraction of a second as he catches his footing. They’re closer now, much closer than what he would like them to be. Whatever distance he made is previously gone with just that one trip, that one slip-up and he’s afraid he’s going to pay for it; and Izaya is paying for it.

It happens fast, too fast for him to make an attempt to avoid it. At first it's a glancing touch, a brushing of fingertips on the back of his neck. Then there's a pressure there, a hand at the back of his neck; then a  _ pull  _ hard enough to make Izaya lose his balance. His heart stops, his blood running cold as he’s lifted off the ground, his legs dangling underneath him. There’s a huff behind him, a breathless sound that could be a laugh as it tousles his hair.

“I finally caught you.” The grip on him tightens, then a breathless chuckle. "You're one slippery bastard, you know that?"

Izaya doesn't fight back; he can't fight back. His body is pliant in his hold, his muscles numb from the extended use.  _ Not slippery enough, it seems. _

"What should we do with him?" That's another voice, deeper than the man who's holding him.

"Well, the boss wants him back in one piece. We should just head back to the lab." 

Izaya has stopped listening, stopped paying attention in favor of fixating on regulating his breathing to something similar to calm. He can get out of this, he's smarter than they are and can use this to his advantage. His eyes bounce between the men. None of them are looking at him; their focus is on each other entirely as they speak. They're distracted. It would be easy to slip away unnoticed if his body would cooperate.

"What's so special about this one? He usually doesn't care about the ones involved."

"It's a matter of personal interest, I believe, or it could be a matter of self-preservation. This man knows too much to be left to his own devices. Who knows the damage he could do with the information he knows?"

That would be true, Izaya muses, if it weren't for the fact that the information he knows holds no significance to his current plans. It’s flattering that they think he’s more invested than he truly is, and that they think the information they’ve provided him with is more important than in actuality. He can’t even use the information he’s collected on this process. There’s no way he can find a practical use for anything he’s gathered. 

It’s a shame, really, to not have use for the information he has. It’s not something he’s unused to; truthfully it’s a common occurrence to have things stored in his brain that he can’t use in day-to-day life. He  _ could  _ use this as blackmail, to save it for future emergencies should they arise; and knowing his humans that will happen eventually. It would be easy to do under different circumstances; to sit behind his desk and manipulate others to where he wants them and set up situations he wishes to watch them get out of. First, though, he’s got to figure out how to get out of this mess and to somewhere relatively safe.

“Well, let’s take him back to the boss. He’ll get this sorted out.”

“Do you think we should get something to eat on the way? I’m not sure when we’ll get a chance otherwise.”

“They told us to return once we caught him.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we can’t get something to eat beforehand.”

"Maybe if it's quick. I don't want to listen to him complain later."

"In that case where should we go?"

Izaya blinks slowly. They caught him, but instead of taking him back they are arguing about food. His head tilts, eyes gleaming with amusement as he listens to the bickering.  _ Interesting. _ He can feel the grip one of them has in him loosening; it must be an unconscious action. 

If he loosened his grip any more Izaya could easily twist his body as if he were a gymnast and escape before the shock of his actions fully registers. That's wishful thinking, he supposes; nothing seems to be going his way today. 

"We both know that the wait there is long. We need to find something quick before this one finds a way to escape.. _Again_."

Izaya holds in a chuckle he can feel forming deep within his chest.  _ What makes you think I won't escape again?  _

"How did he even get out the first time?

"Fuck if I know. I told you he’s a slippery little bastard."

Izaya tilts his head to the side, opting to change his focus from the three men to the mass of people littering the sidewalk. Lunch must be over soon; his humans are slowly dispersing, going back to their places of work rather than being out and about for him to observe despite the situation. It’s organized chaos. It reminds him of the holiday season; people pushing past each other in favor of going back to their desired destination than the politeness of societal norms.

He’s not sure why he’s being held like this; as if he's nothing more than a flea-bitten animal that's more than ready to be put down or some unwanted child, being held at an arm's length. If he were anyone else, he would be offended to be treated as such; as if he’s not worth nothing more than the expanse of this mission rather than the god he knows himself to be. It’s amusing all the same; to listen to their conversation about his important capture, but to also be treated as if he’s the scum of the Earth. There’s a shift pulling him out of his musings; a drop so sudden his heart and his stomach plummets at the same rate he is.

"Watch where you're going!"

It's a surprise when Izaya drops to the ground, his legs almost buckling as his feet land heavy onto the pavement. It takes him a second to realize what happened, to put logic to the sudden jerking motion before his untimely plummet. Someone bumped into them, whether it be an accident or on purpose, he wasn't sure. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. It was an accident!"

Izaya wastes no time in escaping. It's almost second nature at this point, to turn his body around and push it into a full sprint. The adrenaline is back in full force, pumping through his veins as if it's his life's blood and showing no signs of dying out as he gains distance. He's faster this time. He's pushing his body harder that way when the shock of his disappearance lifts from their eyes he'll be blocks away, hidden in plain sight or tucked deep inside an alleyway somewhere. 

He's not sure how long he's been running. It must have been hours, he thinks, since he woke up in that room. He remembers the sun being high in the sky, heating up the Earth below to a comfortable mid-day temperature. It must have been around noon then; the streets were crowded with people going to lunch before they headed back to their mundane lives.

There are more people out now; more bodies populating the sidewalks and roads than there was earlier in the day. It's harder to move around this way, to shift his body in between people so he can push himself to move faster. It's easier to lose them, though. Izaya's body has always been on the smaller side, making it easier to squeeze between bodies and into an alleyway several meters away unnoticed.

He collapses by a nearby wall. The cement is cool under his body, the alley walls keeping it shaded and safe from the early July heat. It’s a nice contrast. His body is too hot, the adrenaline that was coursing through his body moments ago is slowly dying, fading from the all-consuming fire it was to the now dull embers that leave his body exhausted. His body is drained, his limbs throbbing as the pain of running starts to register into his overworked muscles. 

The next time that Izaya sees Shingen he’ll make his life a living hell. Shinra should be lucky that Izaya respects him enough to not murder his father. It’d be so easy to accomplish; to weave his hands in the webs he’s created in the underworld and manipulate others to do his dirty work, but then where would that leave him? Surely Shinra would be upset with him, even if it’s for just a small period of time, but that’s something Izaya can’t risk at the moment. Shingen could also be useful when he’s not messing up Izaya’s plans.

Things could have gone worse, he imagines. He could be held captive, bound and gagged with seemingly no way to escape in an abandoned warehouse. He could be dead in an alley somewhere, forgotten until the smell of his corpse becomes pungent enough to warrant an investigation. He could even lie at the bottom of Tokyo Bay, his body long forgotten until it eventually floats to the surface or buried under rubble from some abandoned construction site, his body broken and battered. No one would know to look for him. His absence would go unnoticed and his humans would be blissfully unaware of his demise.

It's now that Izaya believes that his original plan was flawed. He was too hasty, too excited for a chance to put himself in danger without thinking about the possible outcomes. He should have investigated more; he should be sitting behind his desk and scavenging the forums for any clues, for any hints behind the lies and fake names. With more knowledge, he could do so much more damage to their plans. He could postpone any progress they have, or he could destroy the operation altogether; make it to where they have no choice but to either disband or die. 

At least there’s no one here to see him; no one here to recognize him for who he is, so he takes a moment to linger in the disappointment and annoyance of his situation. He’s not sure how Shingen did it. Not sure how he managed to not only catch Izaya off-guard, but also manage to keep him captive for an extended period of time. Shingen did a number on him, and Izaya would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t impressed with Shingen’s work.

It’s that thought that gets Izaya to chuckle, to find humor of any sort in his situation. There's something about The Kishitanis and their obsession with the supernatural that always intrigues Izaya, always makes him think about the copious amounts of folklore in the world and the possibilities of what might actually exist. Magic is real, Izaya has experienced it first hand; witnessed the unfathomable happen right before his eyes. 

Izaya stretches, feeling his muscles protest his actions and the gravel dig into his body. He doesn't want to get up, to move his aching limbs into obedience and move to a different location. A safer location. It would be ideal to go to one of his many safehouses; to lock himself in a familiar space and wait out the ensuing search party. 

It would be easy to hide there. No one, with the exception of Shinra, knows their locations--and even then Izaya is sure Shinra doesn't know the locations of  _ all  _ of them. There's a comfort there; to be alone and away from everyone, to gaze out his windows and watch humanity below going about their daily lives. He could find solace there; he could find the energy and time to sit at his desk and find a cure for whatever Shingen had done to him. First, though, he will have to figure out how to even get there; to find the strength he doesn't currently have to move his limbs and gather himself from the alley floor and back into the hustle and bustle of the city.

There’s a noise that draws his attention up and away from himself. It’s loud, the sound grating over his ears in a mass of sensory overload. It's hard to decipher it without looking; everything sounds vaguely the same and it takes him a moment to register them as individuals. Izaya curses himself mentally. It's not safe to lose himself in thought when he's compromised; to let his mind wander to the what-ifs and what he should dos before he's actually in a safe place to do so.

It's a door, that's the first thing he could identify; the small creaking of the hinges and the soft click of a latch clue him in. There's laughter next, loud and inebriated as they stumble in and out of the door and down the street. Their footfalls are heavy if not a little bit inconsistent; their natural stability hindered by the alcohol coursing through their systems. He’d watch them on a normal day; see where they go when they’re done with the bar and see what they do, but drunk humans never held his interest long. They were boring, too bashed to do basic functions without difficulty. 

The door creaks again, causing Izaya to look in the direction of the bar he’s sure is there. He’s right; the sign out front is brightly lit, painting the windows and sidewalk alike in a slightly golden hue. There’s a sign above the door; big enough to be read at a distance, but not enough to be gaudy and in the way. There’s a name printed there, the katakana printed black and large enough to stand out against the off-white of the sign s backdrop.  _ The Midnight Carp _ **_._ ** It’s a strange name for a bar; not something Izaya himself would have picked, but he’s never claimed to be good at naming things.

Izaya squares his shoulders as he gains the strength to finally stand. His limbs are heavy, borderline numb from his delayed fatigue. It’s difficult at first. The simple act of standing has his legs wobbling enough for him to lean back against the alley wall for purchase. The first step is the hardest; his legs shaking and barely holding his weight and he almost trips. The following steps are easier; he’s slowly getting the feeling back into his limbs with every step he takes toward the eternal golden hue the sunset paints over the pale sidewalk. 

Izaya doesn’t usually condone the excess intake of alcohol, but he really could go for a drink right about now.


	2. Whisked Away

Shizuo Heiwajima didn’t necessarily hate his job, but that doesn’t mean that he cares for it either.

It's an easy enough job. All he really has to do is welcome the customers, make their drinks, clean, and even toss the drunkards and troublemakers out if need be. He works through the evenings and into the small hours of the morning most days, helping with cleanup after the last of the drunkards stumble out of the bar and onto the sidewalk to make their way home. Then he makes his own way back, in the darkest hours of the morning just before dawn and into his own tiny apartment so he can scrap his uniform and sleep by sunrise. His mornings are more often than not his afternoons; they’re slow as he isn’t a morning person--he’s slow to wake. Shizuo usually stays in to enjoy the relative quiet of his cheap apartment. He’ll go out when he needs to, for shopping or to meet Tom or Kasuka before his shift, work, and then go home right after. 

It's easy to fall into the relative calm his routine brings. Shizuo hasn’t experienced anything close to this comfort since the long-forgotten years of his early childhood. He enjoys the tranquility of his work-to-sleep life; enjoys the sense of fulfillment it gives him each day he uses his hands for cleaning and honest work instead of the violence he’s known for. It’s nice to just stand there and polish glasses, to feel the softness of the rag as it glides against the cool surface instead of the softness of flesh bruising and the sharpness of bones breaking under his knuckles.

The bar is fairly quiet, with only a few people at various tables or booths. There are a few stragglers here and there, but only a handful who wish to enjoy a few drinks in the early evening after a long day at work. It’s nice to have quiet, he thinks; to have time for settling himself into his shift before the hustle and bustle of the nightlife scene comes to life. It’s the calm before the storm. 

At the moment he feels particularly bored, though. He’s been on his feet for hours--for the entirety of his shift--and he’s starting to feel the aching in his feet that moves all the way up his knees and to the base of his spine. It’s a dull ache, more of a bruising feeling that manifests itself whenever he doesn’t move for an extended period of time. It’s a reminder that it’s been slow; he’s only had a handful of customers the past couple of hours.

Shizuo wishes that this was one of their busier evenings, one where the bar is hosting one of the occasional concerts or karaoke nights. It’d be a blessing to have more customers, to have a busier bar than what he currently has now. He likes the pace of a lively shift; likes the rhythm of mixing drinks while carrying on friendly conversation over the sea of voices as if it was second nature. Shizuo likes the people, likes the stories the old men tell and the sparkle of excitement that dances off the occasional cluster of girls out for a drink. The time passes quicker that way.

Everything has been running smoothly for the past few hours. The slow trickle of customers has been keeping him busy. There’s a woman in a green sweater that Shizuo knows by sight but not by name. She’s only been a regular for the past month or so; only coming in for a couple of hours each night, ordering a handful of glasses of wine before she leaves for the night only to return the next day. She doesn’t say much, just orders her first glass of wine before turning her attention to her phone. Shizuo goes back to cleaning the glasses during the breathers in between customers, keeping an eye on the front door in case someone new comes in.

And someone does.

Shizuo hears the door open before he sees it, the sound loud enough to catch his full attention. His smile comes easy, he can feel the soft upturn of his lips form into a soft smile, a pleasant smile. He’s ready to offer a welcome, perhaps even a name if it’s a familiar face, but then there’s a flash of yellow against dark brown at the door swings shut. His smile is gone as soon as it arrives, and it’s quickly replaced with quickly growing irritation and a growl that is attempting to form in the back of his throat. 

“Why hello there!”

“ _Horada,_ ” It comes out as a growl anyway; his grip tightening on the glass in hand to the point it’s in danger of breaking. “I hope you’re here for a drink and to not cause any issues tonight.”

Horada laughs, the sound loud in the semi-crowded room. It pulls the other patron’s attention toward them and away from their separate conversations. “Well what would you know, the monster is working tonight!”

Shizuo breathes in deeply, feeling his lungs expand inside his chest. He holds it for a second, willing his rising anger to die into simmering irritation in the pit of his stomach before releasing the breath. The anger is still there, still threatening to spill over and out of him, but it’s maintained. He can still see through the red. “Do you want a drink, or are you just here to cause trouble?”

There’s a squeak of a barstool as Horada sits. His posture is poor, back bent forward as he rests his folded arms across the bar. He smiles, wide and lacking sincerity. “Of course I want a drink. I’m at a _bar_.” Shizuo growls and Horada chuckles. “I’ll take a beer.”

It’s an easy drink, one that Shizuo doesn’t even have to think about to make. Horada never specifies what beer he wants, but it’s not like he cares so long as it’s alcoholic. Shiuzo reaches behind the bar to grab a bottle, easily pouring it into a glass before handing it to him.

It’s quiet again after Horada gets his drink. The small trickle of customers keeps him busy for a while, but then there’s a whistle that catches his attention. “Heiwajima, I’m ready for another drink! Make this one stronger this time. I want to feel it.” It’s Horada, the gravel of his voice isn’t affected by the alcohol, but Shizuo gives it a few more drinks before he starts to feel it. 

That’s not something Shizuo is looking forward to. Horada is cocky and arrogant when sober, but he’s downright annoying and twice as arrogant when intoxicated. He likes to pick fights; sometimes it would be with other patrons, sometimes it would be with Shizuo himself. A few times Horada escalated to violence inside the bar, and those few times ended with a few broken tables and Horada escorted out until the next time he decided to come in three weeks later. 

Shizuo hands him another glass, taking the one that Horada just had to put behind the counter to be taken in the back and properly cleaned. There’s only a handful of glasses there, proving to him and the back that it has been a slow night. He’s sure it’ll pick up once it gets later; once the night-lifers come out to play and mingle, or do whatever it is they do. Shizuo doesn’t care about that, though. 

The new glass is room temperature, but it chills quickly once he scoops some ice into it and pours the stronger alcohol into it. Shizuo glances at the name, making sure that if Horada asks for another he knows which one to grab to ensure it’s the same as the previous drink. He places the new glass in front of Horada, a small frown threatening to form on his face as he backs up. 

“This is much better. You really know how to pick a drink.” 

It picks up soon after Horada gets his drink. The door keeps opening, the bar is filling up, and Shizuo keeps seeing new and old faces come in. The bar is abuzz now; lively with idle chatter and laughter. It keeps Shizuo busy, the steady stream of customers only increases as the night goes on and it makes the time pass by faster. It keeps him busy, gives him a sense of fulfillment as he pours and mixes various drinks and listens to the problems and stories of his drunk patrons at the bar. 

Shizuo is in the middle of one of these stories when he hears Horada’s voice, which grew progressively louder the more he drank. “I’ve noticed you here a few times and thought I would come over and introduce myself. Name’s Horada. Who might you be?”

“Uninterested.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. Someone as pretty as you are shouldn’t be so lonely. I just came to keep you company.”

“Once again, I am uninterested.”

Horada’s laugh pulls Shizuo’s attention up and away from the customer he’s currently talking to. He’s talking to the woman from earlier; she’s on her third glass of red wine by now and clearly uninterested in whatever he’s trying to do. Her focus is still on her phone as he leans in, elbows on the bar as she just taps at the screen. She doesn’t even flinch as he leans closer, his face invading her own personal space. 

“You’re pretty _and_ cold.” There’s an imitation of a smile forming on Horada’s face, his eyes sparkling with something Shizuo can’t name--he isn’t sure he wants to even if he could. “The more you put up a fight the more I want you.”

That seems to catch her attention, her eyes switching from her phone to his face. Her lips were tipped down into a small frown, her brows furrowing slightly as she just stares at him. She’s unimpressed; it’s obvious in her stare, in her lack of focus on the man next to her in favor in just about anything else. “I thought I had made it clear that I was uninterested.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” There’s a purr in his voice, the smile on his lips never leaving. “Come now, what’s got such a pretty thing like you so worked up? Are you having boy trouble?”

“Now that you mention it, I am. You see, this man keeps bothering me while I’m trying to enjoy my drink _alone_.”

“Ouch. Someone must have hurt you pretty bad for you to be this hostile with a man you just met.”

“Annoyed is more like it.” 

There’s something about the glimmer in Horada’s eyes that puts Shizuo on edge. It alludes to trouble, to something he knows that is going to lead him into throwing Horada out of the bar once again. “I see. Well, if it’s worth anything, you could do way better than him. How about I show you what a fun time is like?” 

“The fact that you’re still talking to me makes me miss the bastard. I could be doing much more productive things with him around, though I loath to admit it.”

“I can show you a good time. You don’t need to miss him anymore once you have me with you.”

“ _Horada!_ ” Shizuo’s voice is loud, it draws the attention of the other patrons sitting at the bar. The air stills for a moment, tense with anticipation of what is about to happen next. “She said to leave her alone and that she's not interested. I would suggest you let it go and leave before things get ugly.”

“Is that a _threat_ , Heiwajima?”

“No, it’s not. It will happen and I will have you thrown out of this bar, again, for harassing one of my other paying customers.”

“I am a paying customer as well. I am free to converse with whoever I want.”

“Not if they keep telling you they’re not interested. Then it becomes a problem.” Shizuo puts the glass he was idly cleaning down onto the counter and stuffs the rag back into his pocket. The other patrons have slowly started to ignore then once more, going back to their own conversations.

“She’s just playing hard to get.”

“No, she is not. Back away before I toss you out back.” Shizuo growls, voice deepening almost an octave. This was supposed to be a quiet night; a night without troubles or issues. That’s too much to ask for, it seems. Peace was never something that his life, despite his name, would grant him for an extended period of time. 

“Stay out of this. This has nothing to do with you and I would suggest you go back to serving drinks.”

It’s then that Shizuo’s anger flares. Before he knows it, he’s next to Horada with a clear scowl on his face and a growl deep in his throat. His hand reaches out before he can think, his fingers skimming the rough fabric of Horada’s shirt before gripping it tightly. “No,” he hisses, “I don’t think I will.”

  
It’s easy to drag Horda along with him toward the back door; it’s even easier to throw him out of the building and into the alleyway. Horada weighs virtually nothing, and whatever weight or fight that he puts up doesn’t do anything. Shizuo watches Horada land on the ground, his body curled in on itself as if he needs to protect his midsection. Shizuo’s vision is still red, his mind hazy with quickly growing irritation as he just stares at the man in front of him.

 _‘How pathetic_.’ 

It takes Horada a second for him to get up, a glare directed at Shizuo. There’s a fire burning behind his eyes, as if one look from him would make Shizuo drop dead on the spot. “What the hell, Heiwajima? What was that for?” His voice is ragged, his words slurred from the alcohol he previously consumed.

“I told you before that if you kept bothering the poor woman that I would toss your ass out again.”

“I was not bothering her. She was just playing hard to get--and I was close to chipping away at her walls.”

“No, you weren’t.” Shizuo reaches into the pocket of his vest to pull out his cigarettes and lighter. He leans against the doorframe, body slouched in a form of nonchalance that is anything but deliberate. He taps the bottom of the package against his palm; it loosens the sticks enough for him to pop one out and into his hand before placing it back into the pocket. 

“Like Hell I wasn’t!”

The lighting of his cigarette is harder than he thought of it would be. The flame refuses to light even as he flicks his wrist to ignite it, to bring it to life and touch it against the tip of the tobacco rod. “Just go home and get sober before you come back. I don’t want to deal with your bullshit tonight.”

“Fuck you!”

It’s not until Shizuo looks up from the attempts he makes of lighting his cigarette does he regret looking away. There’s a fist coming, too fast for him to dodge in the small span of time it takes for it to make contact with his face. The impact itself doesn’t do much more than startle him, to blink in surprise as the cigarette drops onto the pavement and his vision flares red. His anger rises; it roars to life from the pit of his stomach to the flames behind his eyes.

“That punch was meant to hurt me, wasn’t it?” His voice comes out as a growl that sets itself deep in his throat. “You know, you hit someone in the head long enough it can do lasting damage or even kill them. Is that what you were going for?”

Shizuo doesn’t remember what happened next, not fully anyway. One minute he’s snarling at Horada, warning him to leave before things escalate; then the next minute he’s pulling his arm back and letting loose a punch. His fist lands square in his face, the nose specifically. He could feel the bones give way, can feel them break against his knuckles and the blood between his fingertips. 

Horada is on the other end of the alley, crumpled up against a wall and withering in pain. “I told you to get lost.” He watches Horada flinch, to curl into himself a little bit more before he eventually stands. His eyes are wide, a hand covering his nose but it’s clear to see the dark contrast of his blood on his fingers even in the darkness of the alleyway. Horada bolts, running for dear life out and onto the sidewalk. 

Shizuo feels bad, he really does. It’s never his intent to hurt anyone, but once his temper and rage takes over there’s nothing that can stop him; that can control the beast that’s hidden inside himself that can metal just as easily as he can break someone’s bones. He never enjoys the violence that his rage brings, the monster that comes out once it takes over. It likes to destroy, to maim and crush whatever is in his way.

It’s now that Shizuo realizes it’s raining, heavily. Now that his ears have stopped ringing he can hear the patter of liquid meeting cement. It’s soothing in its own way, to hear the quiet ambiance of the storm that is soon to come with the start of the new season. He doesn’t mind it; usually the coming of the annual rainy season annoys him, but there’s something about this one that leaves him with a sense of anticipation. 

_‘Monster.’_

There’s a cat sitting on top of a trash can. He's surprised, honestly, that the creature didn’t run away with all the commotion going on. Instead, it just sits there, unblinking eyes boring into him and it’s tail flickering every couple of minutes. It seems unintimidated, unworried about what it just saw; truthfully it doesn’t even seem bothered by the rain pouring down, wetting its fur. 

_‘You’re a monster.’_

Shizuo watches it jump off the trash can to land silently. It pads toward him, tail swishing slowly as if it’s assessing him, sizing him up as if he were a mouse for the taking. Up close, the cat looks angry despite the posture and the lack of the normal angered cat. Though, angry isn’t the right word; he thinks it’s more like the cat is annoyed, that the rain is more of an inconvenience than the threat it poses with the new season. 

Shizuo tentatively holds his hand out, palm up to show the creature that he means no harm. He holds his breath as it sniffs him. He’ll take this cat, he’s decided, after his shift and bring him home to protect him from the seasonal storms. It stares up at him, the red of its eyes seemingly glowing before it leans into him, into his touch. It purrs.

Maybe this is one creature that wouldn’t be scared of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to update this, but to be honest I'm pretty sure this is my fastest update...ever! Due to the whole COVID-19 stuff, I'm one of the few people that still work because I'm classified as "essential." It's annoying, but whatever.
> 
> ~Please let me know what you would like to happen within the upcoming chapters. I'm not fully sure how I am going to continue these, but all help and ideas are welcomed~


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